Resurgence
by dontmissthis
Summary: A oneshot that delves into the PTSD I believe Jane could've had after the death of Hoyt and the near-death of Maura and herself. Post 2x10.


**Disclaimer: Not making any money, blah. **

**A/N: I got this prompt **_**months**_** ago and just now remembered it. **

**AU because this delves into the PTSD I believe Jane could've had after 2x10.**

* * *

There's a knock on the door, but you don't look away from the television. You're not even sure what you're watching, but that's not the point. You don't want to move. Don't want to speak. Don't want to think.

You zone out. Welcome the feeling of feeling absolutely nothing.

There's another knock, just the same as before.

You know who it is. Those gentle, evenly spaced out taps on the door give it away. It'll only be a few seconds before she uses her key to get in. You don't want her to, but she will.

And you're too tired; _too empty_ to protest it.

So you wait.

When she does walk in, she looks just as perfect as she always does. Not even a single curl is out of place despite the bleary rain.

She is radiant. Brilliant. Impeccable.

You slowly look down at yourself. Note how knotted your own hair is. How wrinkled your clothes are. You might not have changed in days.

She is everything you are not.

But do you care?

No.

The answer is no, not one damn bit.

How could you care about something as trivial as _how you look_, when you have so many other guilt-inducing, self-hating feelings filling your brain? Clouding your emotions. Making you feel so much and nothing at exactly the same time.

A dichotomy at odds with itself in the worst of ways.

Her shoes tap against the floor as she walks over; the couch sinks as she sits next to you. Close enough you can smell her perfume.

It's different than before. Not worse. Better maybe. But different.

After that day, a lot of things changed. It shouldn't surprise you that she has tried to wash away the before and focus on the now.

But it does.

She softly places her manicured hand on your leg. It radiates warmth even through your baggy sweatpants.

Concern.

_Love. _

You hate that.

Hate that she still cares about her after you almost got her raped and killed.

That you almost broke her like you've been broken.

She takes a slow inhale; her fingers rub against your leg. "Talk to me."

Her voice is calm and smooth and even. Inviting you in. Begging you to let _her_ in.

Your eyebrow rises, but you focus on her hand. "There's nothing to talk about."

Your voice is raspy from the little use it's gotten over the month. Thick and deep. Like you're about to cry. But you won't cry. You don't feel enough emotions for them to take over you like that.

Not now. Not anymore.

"Let me help you, Jane," she says with a thinly veiled plea. "I'm worried about you."

You jerk your leg away enough that she gets the point and recoils. Sadness and hurt quickly wash over her face and she clenches her fists in her lap.

You hate yourself even more for making her feel like this on top of the terror you've already put her through. A terror _no one_ should ever have to experience. Especially not someone as good and pure as she.

You were supposed to protect her.

And now you just keep making things worse. Putting her through more things she doesn't deserve.

Rage simmers right below your skin.

_You can't even protect her, damnit_.

You're not worth her concern. You're nothing.

You clench your jaw. "You shouldn't be."

She looks at the table covered in more empty bottles than you can count. You don't know when you drank that much, but you obviously did.

It doesn't bother you though.

The alcohol helps you feel even less.

And feeling less is good.

Because you're nothing.

"But I am," she responds, her eyes carefully studying you in that omniscient way that they do. "I care about you."

You scoff. She can't care about you. Not after what you did to her.

"I do, Jane. Please talk to me."

You're making her feel worse, you can hear it in her voice.

More anger. More guilt.

"You really want to talk?" The acerbity drips from your voice so thickly that you're surprised when she still nods.

You look back to the television so you don't have to see the memories flash in through her eyes again.

"I see it," you admit, your arms crossed tightly. "When I'm showering. When I'm trying to sleep. When I _am_ sleeping. I see what I did to you."

You feel, rather than see her inch closer to you.

"You didn't do anything to me, Jane."

Her voice is so soft and so honest that you want to believe her, but you _know_. You were there. You saw what you did to her.

"I did."

Her hand scoots over tentatively until it's resting on top of your fist.

"_He _did it, Jane. To both of us. Not you."

"I took you there."

She shakes her head; her hair catching the light in an ethereal way that almost makes you feel something other than guilt.

Almost.

"I made you take me there," she says, her fingers gently working to pry yours open. "It wasn't your fault. I'll never blame you for what happened. "

You look away from her. Refusing to be swayed. It was your fault and you know it, whether that's how she remembers it or not.

"I will _always_ blame me."

Silence.

All you hear is silence.

Then she reaches over, touches your chin and guides you to look at her.

Her eyes are so green. Watery. Upset.

Full of sorrow for you, and what has happened to what both of you used to be. Together. Happy. _Alive._

Because now the old Jane is dead and you're something else entirely.

Something twisted, dark, and cold.

Angry and brooding.

Unrecognizable.

Empty.

She blinks and when her eyes reopen, you swear you can almost see her soul. The fiber of her very being. Her goodness that so starkly contrasts with your badness. Her lightness that's being threatened by your darkness pulling her under. Breaking her, tainting her, hurting her.

Her chin quivers. "You saved me."

You look down at your short and dirty nails. She's too good and pure to look at.

Even your gaze may ruin her.

"I'm the one that hurt you to begin with."

You stand quicker than you have in weeks to get away from her protest.

You don't want to hear anymore. You_ can't_ hear anymore.

It makes you too angry with yourself.

Your palms start to sweat.

In the bathroom, you force yourself to look in the mirror. To see what Maura sees. To see if there's anything left worth saving.

Anything left worth fighting for.

But all you see is the white pallor of your face. Your oily hair. The dark spots under your eyes. The anger and emptiness _in_ your eyes.

You look terrible.

You almost crack a smile as you remember Maura had said that very thing after you were shot the first time.

But you don't smile. You don't do that now. Not anymore.

Because you're either too busy being angry or feeling nothing.

You hope when you go back, she'll be gone.

That she quietly left you to brood and hate and float through an empty limbo.

But she isn't.

She's still there. Like she's always been there.

You want to be happy.

Want to be so glad she stayed. Stayed for _you._

But you aren't.

You're angry.

At her. At everyone.

But mostly yourself.

You get in front of her and the way she lights up as soon as she sees you, pisses you off. It shouldn't. You know it shouldn't.

It should make you feel wanted and happy and _free_.

But it doesn't.

Not since before.

"Goddamnit, Maura," you almost growl as you look down at her. "I don't need a babysitter!"

Her brow barely knits in concern. "I know that."

You make a show of looking at where she's sitting on the couch. Where she was waiting for you to come back to.

"Really? Do you?"

"Yes," she nods, spinning her ring like she always does when she's nervous. You've made her nervous.

You hate that, too.

You used to be the one person she could be herself around. The only person she's _ever_ been able to be herself around.

And now that person is gone.

Her eyes are watery as she looks up. "I miss you."

"You miss who I was, Maura," you correct firmly, face emotionless.

She gives a blunt shrug. "You're different now. We both are. But I still love you."

"You don't." You point at yourself. "Who can love this?"

"Me."

The reply is instant.

You knew it would be.

Maura loves you. Damn near thinks you could've hung the moon if it was scientifically possible.

And at this moment…you despise that.

Despise that even though you nearly got her killed…she still fucking loves you.

You _do not_ deserve that much from her.

You don't even deserve to even be in the same room with her.

And she deserves so much better than you.

"Maura," you sigh, crossing your arms and looking down at your socks against the carpet. "Just…leave."

The mask cracks and her chin quivers again. Harder now. She reaches out to grasp your arm, but you angle away from her.

"Jane, I just want to hel—"

"Maura." You look down at her with a hardened face and clenched jaw. Meaner than you need to be. Rough enough to get the point across. "Get. Out."

Your voice is an ordered bark. A tone you've used on suspects many times before. A tone you know hurts, and that's why you used it.

And it works.

Instead of crying, her face goes rigid and her eyebrows rise like it didn't hurt her.

But that's when you know it really did.

When she pretends it doesn't and she goes back to the cool demeanor she had adopted to get her through all those years alone.

That's when you know you've won.

A shitty game to win with a shitty prize to be had, but you've won.

Nodding with the iciest expression she's ever thrown your way, she pushes her purse on her shoulder as she stands. It's only when she reaches the doorway does she hesitantly look back at you. "I'm here if you need to talk."

You brush your hand towards her in that half-ass way you're good at. "I won't."

You don't look up as she leaves.

* * *

It's another month before you're allowed to go back to work.

You don't drink as much, but your dreams are just as bad and you're almost just as angry, but you've gotten better at masking it.

You stay away from the morgue as long as you can, because you are the reason Maura was almost sent there in a body bag instead of her normal, over the top attire and bright smile.

Makes you feel sick just thinking about what almost was.

So you stay away until you can't; until nearly two weeks after you go back and Frost pretends to be too busy and Korsak slinks away to the café so you have to deal with it yourself.

You know what they're doing.

It makes you angry. Makes your blood boil.

But you can't protest without making a scene.

And you _cannot_ make a scene. Not here. Not after having just been cleared for more than desk duty.

The morgue is just as cold as it's always been.

But now there's no underlying warmth Maura had always brought. It's more foreign. Like without you coming around every day, it withered up and died.

Became just as empty as you.

You take a deep breath, palms sweaty as you finally make yourself walk through the doors.

Her back is towards you. There are no headphones in her ears; no absentminded swaying of her body. No hint at any joy. No effort to be relaxed.

She is rigid. Focused only on the task at hand. Like she's forgotten what it's like for you to be there, so she doesn't bother listening for the doors to open or your heavy footfalls.

It hurts. Hurts to know her life has been just as tossed and disheveled as yours.

All because of _you._

You almost back out before she realizes you're there, but you set your jaw and walk to the other side of the table to face her.

"Just a moment," she says without looking up, "There's a puckered inconsistency on the heart."

You watch her eyebrows knit; the way she looks through her goggles in focused fascination.

The corners of your lips barely tug upwards at the sight.

You didn't even mean to, but you may have just smiled for the first time in months.

A weak and unwitnessed smile.

But a smile nonetheless.

You lean back on the table behind you.

"Take your time."

Her head instantly jerks up to confirm what she suspects.

_It's really you_, you can read her thoughts through her eyes as they light up.

She gives you a beaming smile that only slightly falters as she realizes how long it's been.

"Hello, Jane."

The glint of metal catches your gaze and you quickly look down and away. Cross your arms tight against your chest to maybe quell your drumming heart.

"Can you put that down?"

Your voice is barely a whispered rasp and you hate how easily your weakness is shown.

She looks to her gloved hand. Realizes there's a scalpel between her fingers. The object of so many of your memories and hate and guilt.

"Yes. _Yes_, of course I can." Almost frantically, she puts it down and out of sight. She starts tugging off the fingers of her gloves and you can practically feel her scrutiny. "How are you?"

Now her voice is a whisper and you understand why.

It's been over a month since you've spoken to her.

And it's _different._

She's different, you're different, and the air around you both feels different.

And she's trying to tread through that heavy air the best way she knows how: by letting _you_ dictate the pace. Dictate what you're comfortable with and what you're not.

The small gesture—that means so incredibly much—makes your throat constrict.

Here's a woman that you've pushed away and almost shattered and yet, she's still trying to make sure you're the one that's okay.

It's too much.

You don't know how to deal with these feelings springing up inside of you.

Not after so many months that were limited to only anger and guilt and nothing.

You shake your head as you look back into her eyes. "I can't," you say, swallowing thickly, "Can't talk about that right now. I'm just here for the case."

"Oh," she gives a quick nod and her face hints at a shade of pink. "Right. I'll have the cause of death to you as soon as the results are back."

You give her a tight lipped attempt at a grin. It's the best you can do right now.

"Thanks."

You start to leave. High-tail it back up to your desk where you can sit in solidarity and be surrounded by a comfortable bubble of emotionless. Not nearly drowning in all the ones Maura Isles is threatening to bring forth.

"It's good to see you back, Jane," she calls out as you're almost at the doors.

You pause before looking back at her. You shake your head at her smile. "I'm not back. Not yet."

You don't have to explain.

She understands.

Like she always does. In that way that she can't understand people, but she can understand you perfectly.

Her head tilts in the empathetic way she's so good at that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world. "I'm still here if you need to talk."

This time, you nod. "I know."

* * *

Frankie stops by every other day. He comes under the premise of wanting to watch the game or talk about a case, but you know it's so he can keep an eye on you. To make sure you haven't lost any of your progress.

But it's okay.

You're glad he visits. You've missed him. Missed the normality of being in someone else's presence.

He makes you laugh—something you haven't done in nearly three months. You talk about the ridiculous things you did as kids. About how Angela smacked you with spoons for digging in the desserts on Christmas. About the time you stuck Tommy's head in that very same dessert at dinner that night.

It feels good to laugh like that.

It helps.

So you don't ever ask him to leave.

Not even when you both just sit in silence. Lost in your thoughts.

At least you're not lost on your own.

Angela comes by nearly every morning to make you breakfast and complain about how little you eat. She makes a show of pulling and tugging at the now-awkward fit of your loose clothes.

It almost annoys you.

But it's how she shows she cares. So you give her that little piece of comfort.

She deserves it after all the worrying you've put her through.

The psychiatrist says you're doing better, and you're finally starting to believe it.

You feel better. The nightmares come less frequently; not as many flashbacks. You're not so angry. You smile more freely. Laugh just a little more often.

You've definitely changed, but now you feel more normal.

The myriad of emotions flying through you feels better, too. A little overwhelming since you went from anger, guilt, or nothing at all to feeling almost everything again. But it's definitely better.

But it's not to say you don't have your bad days.

The days you can't step in the morgue because the scalpel brings back memories of Maura on that table next to you with one at her neck. The nights you can't sleep because all you can see is his evil snarl and all you hear are Maura's cries for the help that you were unable to give her. The days that a knick on your finger sends you to your knees because the red dot of blood reminds you of the red river cascading down Maura's throat.

Those are the bad days.

The ones you almost drink yourself into oblivion.

But you don't.

Instead, you let Frankie in to watch a game dated back from before you were born. You let your mother cook for you. Care for you.

And sometimes…you work up enough nerve to call Maura.

After the initial _hellos_, not much is said. You just let the lull of her breathing calm you down. Let it remind you that she's still alive and well and doesn't hate you. Doesn't blame you, even though you still kind of blame yourself.

She makes your bad days almost as good as your good days.

All without saying more than a handful of words.

She has a knack for that, you realize. Doing exactly the right thing without you ever even needing to ask.

Just another one of the things you love about her.

And as her breathing evens out as she falls asleep—most likely with a book in her lap or a completely uninteresting show playing in the background—you always whisper _thank you_ before hanging up.

You don't explain why you're thanking her.

You don't have to.

She knows.

* * *

Her body is soft as she presses up behind you.

It seems like forever since you've touched her.

Your heart skips a beat.

Her hand skims down your arm slowly until it's resting on top of your own.

"Are you ready?"

You feel sick.

"No," you reply, shaking your head.

Her fingers squeeze your own. "We can wait."

"No," you reply more firmly. "We can't. It's been four months."

You see her quick nod out of the corner of your eye.

"Okay. Let's just," she guides your hand to rest on top of a scalpel on the table. "There."

The metal is cool against your palm, and you thickly swallow as you pick it up with a shaky hand.

Maura steadies it.

And you let her.

She's your rock.

Your pillar of strength.

Moving your clenched fist, she places it to hover above an already completed y-incision before pressing down against the stitches. She drags both of your hands down so that you can feel each of them pop open, one by one.

"How does it feel?"

You shake your head. "I don't know."

She pulls on your hand even more. Another stitch pops. "Are you sure?"

You take a deep breath and lean back into her body ever so slightly. "It…it feels like I'm in control."

Her free hand comes up and squeezes your hip; anchoring you both together.

"Is that how you think I feel when I use one?"

You nod. "Yeah."

"Okay," she pulls your hands back and takes the scalpel in her own hand. Holds it up so that you're looking at it. "So if I'm in control, do you have anything to worry about when you're down here with me? While I'm holding the scalpel in _my _hand?"

You flinch at the word. Take a small step away. "I'm not scared of you, Maura. I'm not scared of _it_," you look at her face, "It's the memories of everything it did to you. That's what I can't handle."

Her face softens and she lays it on the table. Reaching out, she squeezes your fingertips. "I'm in control down here, Jane. No one else. Think of it as a different weapon than the one he used. Completely separate entities."

You drop your head. "It's not that easy, Maura. I've tried."

And then she completely catches you off guard. "Would it help if they were pink?"

"What?" You can't help the smile on your face until you realize she's serious. You shrug, looking back down to the floor. "Yeah, maybe it would."

The next time you go to see her, she's holding a special-order pink scalpel in her hand with a grin on her face.

It helps.

* * *

You step into Maura's foyer for the first time in what seems like eons.

It smells the same.

Looks the same.

You don't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't this.

Maybe a redecorating, UPS-shopping spree where Maura had redone the entire house in lime greens and pinks.

But certainly not something so…normal. So entirely how you remembered it.

You hear her shoes against the floor as she turns the corner to greet you. Her smile is bright and you can tell she took extra care in putting on her makeup. In styling her hair and picking out the teal dress you've always said was your favorite.

She's beautiful.

You smile back and, ramming your hands in your pockets, you try not to awkwardly shift on your feet. "You look good."

Her smile gets bigger and she briefly looks down bashfully before glancing back up and waving you closer. "As do you. Would you like something to drink?" She leads you into the kitchen and you try not to stare. "I have some of the beer yo—"

"I don't drink," you interrupt quickly, before giving an apologetic grin. "Not anymore. Thanks though."

She pulls out two _highly caffeinated beverages_ that she never, ever would've drank before and starts to open them. You raise an eyebrow and she shrugs. "I wanted to be prepared. You still like this, don't you?"

You take the glass from her and nod with a sideways smile. "Yeah. I still like Coke."

"It's horrible for you, you know. It can lead to an increase in fat buildup around your liver and skeletal muscles," she starts before lightly blushing. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I like it."

Her head tilts in that way she doesn't believe you.

"I do," you reaffirm. "It feels…normal."

And you definitely like normal.

It feels so much better than the aberrant life you had been drowning in.

A silence falls around you; both of you unsure of what to say. How to act.

You hate that your friendship—your _almost something more_—has been reduced to a game of tiptoe.

But you don't hate yourself for it.

Not at this moment.

You're just glad that she is here and alive and looking at you with the most gentle, caring gaze she ever has.

You clear your throat to disturb the air, and look around in feigned nonchalance. "I heard there's a special about nematodes or something on tonight," you shrug, "You know…if you want to watch it."

Grinning, she squeezes your bicep as she passes so you follow her into the living room. "While I do have that recording, I have something else in mind."

The couch and living room are exactly the same as they were when you last stepped in the door nearly half a year ago.

Just as clean and tidy and _Maura_ as it's ever been.

It's comforting. Calming.

You don't feel quite so nervous; not so far out of your element.

The lights are dimmed. Not so much as to overtly suggest _more_, but merely to make it more comfortable. You appreciate that; the little things Maura does just for you.

She sinks down next to you on the couch.

Not as closely as she used to—thigh to thigh and her head resting against you.

No, she leaves space.

A wide, gaping half-foot space between you as to not push or pull you.

Or maybe it's just because she, herself, doesn't know how to act. Doesn't want to be closer to you.

You aren't sure.

So the gap remains.

When the movie starts, it only takes you a second to realize what it is.

The first movie you had ever watched with her. On this very couch.

It was, to you , the night that defined your friendship.

You got to know her. The _real _her. The part of herself that she kept hidden from everyone lest she find herself exposed and vulnerable.

She spoke about her broken family life; the benign neglect. Her love for all things scientific and intellectual. About how her favorite movie was some rom-com from the 80s, but she hated admitting it. She showed you her tortoise and drank red wine until she was giddy and telling the corniest jokes you had ever heard.

That's when you truly embraced her. Considered her one of the best friends you had ever had, and allowed yourself to be opened to her little by little to her as well.

And now, she's playing this movie because what else is tonight but a night to open yourself up all over again? To be vulnerable and exposed. To let her in so she can see the new Jane. To rebuild the friendship that has slowly faded throughout the months.

You love her even more for having the forethought to do this.

She's amazing.

And that's what you tell her.

She bashfully grins.

"Thank you," she whispers, placing her hand palm-up on the gap between you.

An invitation.

Desire.

Hope.

You don't deny her.

The way your fingers intertwine is perfect. Like two puzzle pieces finally coming together again.

Finally being completed again.

It makes your chest flutter.

You've missed this.

Missed it more than you even realized until this very moment.

You scoot a little closer to her.

She hums in approval, squeezes your hand.

You feel like you're soaring.

Happier than you've been in ages.

So happy.

_At last. _

Nearly halfway through the movie, her head has, at some point, come to rest on your shoulder and you can smell her shampoo. The spiciness of her body wash.

She smells wonderful.

She smells like _home_.

Your throat tries to close, your eyes nearly water.

How in the world have you let yourself go so long without showing her that?

And before you know it, your lips are on hers and it is _perfect_.

Like you've been lost in the dark for _years _and she's the light pulling you to safety.

Like you were drowning and she's the buoy pulling you up for air.

Like you are space and she's the sun and stars, filling you and lighting you up.

She is amazing.

_She is everything. _

You finally pull back, but the allure of the rise and fall of her breath is too much and you can't help but place one last kiss on her parted lips.

Her eyes are watery and bright when they finally open.

You reach up and cup her cheek. "What's wrong?"

Her head imperceptibly shakes, and she draws in a sharp intake of breath. "I," she has to clear her throat, "I've missed you, Jane. A lot. I haven't been the same without you. _Nothing_ has been the same without you."

Involuntarily, a tear rolls down your cheek as you pull her into you.

Her face finds the crook of your neck and you hold her close as she cries.

As _you _cry.

Your hand wraps in her hair.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I've missed you so much."

There's a sniff, a deep inhale before she pulls away from her favorite spot.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Jane," she says, leaning forward so her lips brush yours as she speaks. "I'm just glad you're back."

* * *

**Feedback is lovely if you have the time. Thank you so much for reading!**


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